


Landlady, Let Me Dream Some More

by teamug



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Awkward Boners, Internal Conflict, M/M, Manpain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamug/pseuds/teamug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Webster whispers a familiar name in his sleep, and <i>most</i> of second platoon is delighted.<br/>Set in Hagenau, post patrol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landlady, Let Me Dream Some More

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for boners and language!  
> Comments and critiques (especially those!) are welcome <3

In exchange for a game or six, Malarkey tells Liebgott to go fetch a pack of cards from Luz. Liebgott nods his head at Webster on the way out of their dilapidated French holiday cottage, who tells him he wants to finish this tome he's reading before they move out because he doesn't want to have to hump it around Germany with him. Web, ever the happy fucking camper.

It takes Liebgott a while to coax the cards off Luz at CP, but he does manage it, after he promises Luz he'll bring them back (if they don't get shot out of his hand first, that is).

As soon as he returns, Babe calls him over ( _Hey Liebgott, get a load o' this!_ ) and leads him to one of the bunk beds. Liebgott clicks his tongue and chucks the cards at Malarkey. Babe's always got something to show somebody.

The air around the beds is hot and smells like sleeping soldiers, stale and stiff with vaporised sweat. Webster is asleep on the bottom bunk fully-clothed, pale and agitated as a plucked chicken. France is cold and dirty, and Liebgott has always figured that Web is the type of guy that gets sick easy. No doubt he was viciously mollycoddled by his parents, home-schooled and clean-fingernailed, until his immune system just put up its hands and left. Guy looks awful.

He whimpers in his sleep. Liebgott's stomach tightens, but Babe doesn't have one crease of concern on his face; no, actually, he's smiling.

"Been like this pretty much since you left," he says, as more of the men cluster up behind them, "First time I seen him close his eyes since he got here, actually."

Sure, Web hasn't slept for a while. He must've been desperate for it, because the book he was reading lies by his feet, open and spine up. There's something -- Web never usually abandons a book for something as trivial as sleep. It looks like he's having some difficulty breathing steady, and every so often his face twists up as though he's being intermittently assaulted with a cattle prod. The scraggy home-knitted blanket that came with the bed is tangled around his legs, and the corner of his pillow is twisted in one of his hands. The other hand is lying flat, dangerously close to the fucking wigwam in his crotch.

At last, Liebgott has twigged.

"What the Hell?" He says, whipping round and staring at the sudden crescent of smirks and grins closing him in, "Come on." He reaches out to shake Web awake; but Malarkey, who is shuffling their cards at the table by the window, interrupts him.

"Liebgott, just let the kid sleep for Chrissakes," he commands, wearily, "And get your bony beehind over here or I'm not gonna let you win your Luckies back."

Liebgott can't believe what he's hearing, and he doesn't like the way the guys are sniggering at Web (who he hasn't touched since Aldbourne, by the way). He might be goofy as a damned Screwball movie most of the time, but if Liebgott's not laughing at him, it's not funny.

"Christ," he murmurs, but he backs off and trusts Webster not to make another peep.

He looks so distressed it's embarrassing; Liebgott makes it even more embarrassing for himself by endeavouring to picture exactly what it is he's dreaming about, and he has to make a swift 180 and walk away before he fucking cries. He's already seen it this far without Web. He's spent what, four months convincing himself that their relationship is nothing but a dead weight in his head, just stewing, semi-fresh memories he'll abandon sooner or later, like the rest. He's seen it this far.

He takes a seat opposite Malarkey and pretends he's really into this game of gin rummy they're about to start playing. The new cards feel cool and waxy, and smell fresh. Liebgott doesn't actually notice that the hand he's been dealt is godawful until much later; his eyes are still on the bed as he waits for the rest of the guys to get bored of watching the show and disperse.

They do, eventually, because this is War, and there are more important things to do than see out some _other guy's_ wet dream. Finally, Liebgott can finally pay a little attention to what's in his hand -- until, lo! the bed speaks.

" _Joe_."

Liebgott inconveniently loses the ability to breathe. The room doesn't stir. Maybe he's gotten away with it? With any luck, he'll remember not to pulverise the cards in his fist--

" _Joe_ ," Web sighs again through his lips, just intelligible enough for every other member of the fucking platoon to stop what they're doing and look right at Liebgott. He meets Malarkey's shrewd eye, but Malarkey says nothing.

"Come on, Lieb, boots off," Babe pipes up, grabbing his shoulder and jiggling it around, "Think he left ya some space on the bed."

"Get fucked," Liebgott retorts, dusting Babe off him, "That's his college dame's name. Josephine, remember?"

Babe sniggers and leaves him alone. He doesn't remember being told that Webster's girlfriend is called Josephine because Webster's girlfriend doesn't exist; the only girl Web can muster a vestige of interest in is that writer -- Bronty, Bronto, Bronko -- he won't shut up about whenever he starts yearning out loud (really loud) for hills and mountains, and tells him about all those beautiful hot summers he's spent hiking the rim of the Grand Canyon. He's told Liebgott at least five times that he'll lend him his copy of her book when they get home. Not that Liebgott will ever consider reading it, of course, or even look at it once he's put it away somewhere dark and forgotten it completely.

A few seconds later the dream is evidently nearing its climax (climax, definitely the wrong word), as Webster produces the sort of creaky, salacious groan only Mae West would have the capacity to imitate, and Liebgott narrowly avoids punching a hole in the table by attempting to think of something considerably less Webster-related: not the kills, but maybe his shitty hand of cards, or the shitty weather, or all of his shitty cabbie or barber jobs in San Francisco, dusting the offcuts like iron filings off the fat pink necks of well-to-do customers, all stink and bristles and Sweet Mother of Everything, Web makes that sound again and all Liebgott can think of is the number of times he's run his fingers across the nape of Webster's neck and felt more heat than all of Web's precious summers combined.

The room remains unaffected. Everything is dead and cold, and Liebgott is burning a hole in his cards.

Thankfully, on the top bunk, Ramirez is also trying to get some shut-eye. Liebgott hears him groan into his pillow and murmur, "Oh, screw this." He thunks onto the floor, and Liebgott turns around just in time to watch him bend down and lean over the agitated Webster.

"Webster," he hisses, "Hey, Webster. Wake the fuck up, boy!"

It takes nothing more than that. Web whips himself up onto his elbows so suddenly he almost nuts his reviver, making the bunk quake and the floor shudder like mad. The shells could be back and they wouldn't notice. He gawks at Ramirez.

"Morning, Webster!" Babe salutes him, "How was Josephine?"

Webster wets his mouth and swallows, looking politely bewildered -- as if he has the right. Babe's eyebrows bounce, and he grins.

"Jesus Christ!" Webster's caught sight of his own crotch. He chuckles at it, sheepishly. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?" He demands, the smile falling away from his face like saturated laundry drooping off a washing line as he realises just how many people are watching him.

"Go have a shower, Webster," Malarkey calls, studying his hand; he's already had his fun, "Sort yourself out, got it?"

"Sir," Webster murmurs. In order to avoid further humiliation he pulls the blanket over his lap as he gets up. Then clears his throat, and, hoping that everyone has already lost interest, braves another look-around. He wobbles where he stands.

There he is, in the chair by the window. Looking morose but utterly composed (and little wind-swept), he's holding his cards in his lap as though he's forgotten what he's got them for. He's the last to turn his head Webster's way. Webster's sure the floor beneath him is about to give -- he wishes it would.

"Hey, Web," says Liebgott calmly, absently thumbing his cards. He dons a lackadaisical smile.

"Finish your book?"


End file.
